Filling in the Blanks: Project Sidle
by sidlerocks
Summary: Set primarily in the end of season 5. Just how, why and when did Grissom figure out what to do about THIS? Expect spoilers from Cool Change to Goodbye and Good Luck
1. Filling in the Blanks Timeline

_**Filling in the Blanks**_

**Season 5**

_Project Sidle_

Set during Spark of Life through Committed

(518-521)

**Season 6**

_It Was a Sunday_

Set during A Bullet Runs Through It

(607-608)

_Mélange: Beyond this Point There be Werewolves_

Set between Still Life and Werewolves

(610-611)

**Season 7**

_I'll See You Later_

Set during Law of Gravity

(715-716)


	2. Author's note

10-06-2008

I'm currently reading a really fabulous WIP—Helen Pattskyn's _Torchwood _story "Forget Me Not" (/s/4567675/1/ForgetNotMe). It's everything I usually avoid in fan fiction, AU, set WAY in the future, brutal, sad, but it's incredibly well written, touching and gripping. (You do need to be familiar with _Torchwood_ and there are references to things from her previous stories, so there's a lot to read before you get to this tale, but believe me, it's worth the effort. And maybe by the time you read the rest of her stuff, this story will be finished so unlike me, you won't have to be obsessively checking your e-mail to see if there's a new chapter posted.) It was published a week ago and has (as of this moment) 51 reviews, almost all begging for her to write quickly.

Now, I've written four stories, and between them, they've gotten more than 23,000 hits. And a total of 37 reviews, many of them from the same wonderful reviewers. It occurs to me that as I post the stories as complete tales and don't beg for reviews, that there's not much incentive to comment. It would kind of be nice to know if I'm just spinning my wheels, though. I mean, I figure by the time you've slogged through somewhere between seven and 30,000 words, you must have an opinion. Mind letting me know whether you've enjoyed the stories or feel like you just wasted your time? Worth writing more?

Oh, and if you're a Torchwood /Janto fan, even if, like me, AU and crossovers are not your thing, check out Helen Pattskyn. I think you'll be glad you did.

BTW, if you've already ready my stories, I haven't updated the stories themselves, just added comments and made some formatting changes, so don't work too hard looking for the changes.


	3. Chapter 1

**Filling in the Blanks**

"**Project Sidle"**

Chapter 1

31 March 2005 22:47

The Las Vegas Crime Lab night shift criminalists were gathered when supervisor Dr. Gilbert Grissom strode into the break room with evening assignments. His eyes swept his contracted crew. Four months earlier lab director, political hack and bane of his existence, Conrad Ecklie, in a fit of pique after failing to sustain trumped up charges of misconduct against Grissom, had divided the team the night shift supervisor had assembled, developed and trained. Transferring graveyard shift's three most senior investigators to the swing shift, he had left Grissom first with only three and then two criminalists: former DNA analyst and most junior team member, Greg Sanders, and the brilliant Sara Sidle whose stunningly quick mind, quirky sense of humor and endless capacity for compassion and righteous outrage on behalf of others had tied Grisssom in emotional knots for the last seven years. Sofia Curtis, who had been acting swing shift supervisor, understanding her transfer to nights to be the demotion and reprimand Ecklie had intended, had subsequently resigned. So the graveyard investigators did their job, passing their former team members in the halls and locker room, and the empty chairs around the break room table still felt like bleeding wounds.

But as badly as Grissom wanted his team back intact, he wouldn't have undone any of what led to the severing—those same changes had been a wake-up call, or a shake-up call, and the risks he'd taken as a result had made him the happiest he'd ever been in his life, both personally and professionally. So he handled the busy nights with his little team of three investigators, including himself, and continued to have the highest close rate of any of the three shifts in the second busiest crime lab in the country, resolving close to twenty cases a week. Only the FBI lab worked more cases.

He looked up from his paperwork, caught Sara's private smirking smile, and met Greg's waiting gaze.

"Sara, we've got a fire up off of Blue Diamond Road. One 419, possible arson." Greg's eye's brightened at the mention of the LVPD code for a deceased person. Apologetically, Grissom continued. "Greg, I need you to finish packing up the evidence on the Four Aces case. Don't worry, I'm sure there will be plenty to do later in the shift. Swing's on OT tied up with a triple in the suburbs, so no matter how busy it gets, it's just us, folks."

Often more comfortable as a passenger than behind the wheel, especially while working—he used the time to process his thoughts--Grissom rode in easy silence as Sara drove through the darkness, at one point, alone in the warm cocoon of the SUV, even reaching over to take her hand, rubbing a gentle thumb along its back. It was a liberty he'd longed to have the right to take for years, but had finally earned only in the past several weeks. Sara stared straight out at the road ahead, giving his hand a squeeze, and reveled in the contact, hoping against hope that she wasn't about to get her heart broken by him again.

Unlike much of the Southwest, the area around Las Vegas is not particularly prone to wildfire. In contrast to, for example, the chaparral of Southern California or the thick grasses of the Great Plains, Nevada's salt flats support sparse native grasses, which don't provide much fuel for firestorms. Recently, the invasion of two non-native species, cheatgrass and red brome which mature and dry earlier than the native grasses they squeeze out, thereby creating flammable materials during the driest, hottest, windiest time of year, have increased the wildfires in Northern Nevada but have not, so far, caused significant fires in the Las Vegas area. Still, the smell of smoke, the scorched earth and charred smoking, glowing skeletons of trees brought back vivid memories for both criminalists. Grissom had been elected Coroner in Los Angeles County two years before the San Bernadino arson fires of 1980 that consumed 23,600 acres, and had gone to the scene and assisted with the recovery and autopsies of the four victims. It had taken him weeks to get the "grilled steak" odor of burned human flesh out of his nose. And Sara had just started with the San Francisco crime lab when an inadequately extinguished campfire flared and started a firestorm which burned 12,000 acres and destroyed 45 homes on Inverness Ridge. No one had died in that fire, but it had been just across Tomales Bay from Sara's childhood home and she had used her crime lab credentials to accompany firefighters into the active fire zone. She'd not seen a fire storm before or since, but once lived through, getting up close and personal with raging 50 foot tall walls of fire racing up and over ridges was a visceral experience no one would ever forget.

Fire Chief Rick Dysart met Grissom and Sara at the scene. They'd already been acquainted with the former bomb squad leader when, about five months earlier, he'd found a large amount of liquid explosive in a house Grissom, Sara and fellow criminalist and now-swing shift supervisor Catherine Willows were processing. In the aftermath of the dramatic "detonation in place", the bomb squad and criminalists had gathered after shift for a beer, and from a professional relationship of mutual respect, a positive friendship had begun. Dysart greeted the crime scene kit-toting pair and led them around to the body from below.

"So Rick, glad to not be risking your life defusing bombs every day?" Sara asked.

"Different risks, same caution. My wife is happier, though. We're going this way because the fire is still burning up on the ridge," he explained. "You still need to be sure to keep up if I take off running." They crouched, examining the body. Sara began snapping photographs.

"Local home owner called it in early. We got it contained pretty quick. We were lucky," Dysart continued.

"Luckier than he was," Grissom responded, indicating the corpse. "Low humidity, dry brush: perfect conditions for maximum damage."

"Firebugs listen to the weather reports just like we do, only for different reasons."

"Maybe some moron just threw a cigarette out the car window," Sara hypothesized.

"You're an optimist," Dysart responded, exchanging a glance with her.

Grissom stood, looking around. "Do you have a point of origin?"

"Not yet." Dysart stood too. "Fire spread down the slope, probably started along top of the ridge. I'll give you a shout when it's safe to come up."

"Okay, Mom," Sara intoned, and Dysart shot her a smile as he headed up the hill. Grissom waited until Rick was out of earshot.

"This area was always a good place for star gazing," he told Sara. She focused on her work as she responded, "It's a good make-out spot too, so I've heard." Grissom paused, and raised an eyebrow, considering what she'd said, before moving off to examine more of the scene. Sara smiled to herself. What a difference a little time makes! Seven years earlier she would have made the same comment and intended it as a positive proposal; five years ago she would have made it as an invitation. Over the past few years, she would have kept the thought to herself, afraid of being eviscerated or, worse, ignored by Grissom in response.

But those days--thank god!--were in the past. The thaw had started not quite a year ago; the night, actually, when Grissom had come to get Sara after she had been picked up for DUI. At the time Sara had just about given up hope, not only of ever having the kind of relationship she so wanted with her mentor, but even of reviving the friendship they had once shared, and she was beginning to wonder, following Grissom's recommendation of her friend and co-worker Nick Stokes for a job she was far more qualified for, whether they had even lost the ability to work together, if their history was going to torpedo what was left of her career.

Two thousand and two through two thousand and three had been a particularly rough time for both of them. Grissom had been suffering from a significantly worsening case of otosclerosis that he believed would result in permanent profound and profession-ending deafness like that from which his mother suffered. Never an effusive man--with the possible exception of those stolen moments together during the two years following the Forensic Academy Conference where he first met Sara: weekends in San Francisco, drives up and down the northern California coast, hand-written letters, long early morning phone calls after the end of their respective shifts—he had withdrawn more than ever, keeping his fears to himself, and as a result, forced Sara further and further away. The little compliments he had previously randomly sprinkled into conversation dried up, and he had actively pushed her into a relationship with another man, a relationship that had ended disastrously when Sara discovered he'd been two-timing his fiancé with her. Sara might have been many things, but "the other woman" was not going to be one of them. And just about then, the rumor mill had Grissom first out on a date, then spending the night with a dominatrix who ran a local S&M palace.

Yet even then Sara had given it one more shot, one final try, because another thing she definitely was not was a quitter. She hadn't planned to ask him out, but another investigator's exhausted mistake had resulted in a lab explosion, one which almost killed Greg and badly lacerated Sara's palm. When he saw that she was injured, Grissom had gotten her medical attention and called her "Honey," and that combined with her near escape had given Sara the courage to try one more time. She'd shown up at the door to Grissom's office at the end of shift.

"Would you like to have dinner with me?"

Grissom paused before answering, "No."

"Why not? Let's ... let's have dinner. Let's see what happens."

"Sara ... I don't know what to do about… this." He indicated the two of them.

"I do. You know, by the time you figure it out, you really could be too late," she told him and she'd turned and left. There was no way she could have known at the time that Grissom was facing imminent surgery, with no idea whether his hearing would be repaired or destroyed, that his career was hanging in the balance, or that he came within a hair's breath of following her down the hallway and taking her up on her challenge. All she knew was that in the end he didn't even try.

And then six months later Grissom had given Sara an entomology text for Christmas, one with personal anecdotes and annotations written in the margins throughout and a small flame of hope flickered up. For three glorious weeks. Until Grissom had a case in which the victim physically resembled Sara. A victim who had had an affair with an older man, an older man who had killed her. Their relationship was nothing like Grissom and Sara's, the victim was nothing like Sara, the murderer nothing like Grissom, but in his fear and insecurity, Grissom drew a parallel between them, and Sara had overheard his final conversation with the killer:

"We wake up one day and realize that for fifty years we haven't really lived at all," he started, "But then, all of a sudden we get a second chance. Somebody young and beautiful shows up. Somebody ... we could care about. She offers us a new life with her... But we have a big decision to make, right? Because we have to risk everything we've worked for in order to have her. I couldn't do it."

And listening in the darkness, Sara's heart had shattered.

Grissom's yell interrupted her train of thought. "Sara! We've got another body! GET THE PARAMEDICS!"


	4. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Over the last thirty-three years, Gil Grissom had seen pretty much everything, but having a presumed corpse, one burned over virtually 100 of her body, open her eyes—well, that had definitely shaken him up. He knew as well as anyone what the mortality rate was for such severe burns, and how painful the treatment would be in the meantime. Not initially though—not with 3rd degree burns. They destroy the nerves. It was later—if she lived that long. Not that he'd let it interfere with doing his job, but getting back in the Denali, he paused and met Sara's gaze, allowing his professional mask to slip.

"God, Sara!"

She reached out and took his hand, squeezing tightly.

"I know, Gil. You okay?"

He shook his head silently and squeezed back.

"Come on, let's get out of here. We've got to come back in daylight as it is. No point in hanging around here now."

She put the car in gear and for the millionth time he thanked whatever gods had made this woman hang tough long enough for him to get his head out of his ass and see what was right in front of him. He'd been in love with Sara for seven years, and yet had only been willing to take the chance to even hold her privately in the last two months. Not that he hadn't been working on it. He'd been trying to repair their relationship for more than a year. He'd started working on it when he'd realized just how far he'd gone, when he realized that he'd let Catherine take over one of Sara's cases at least in part to push Sara away. His start had been a little rocky, but then he didn't have any experience in trying to apologize to women. He'd spent hours annotating the book he gave her that Christmas, hoping she'd recognize the "mea culpa"s in every comment. And maybe even the "I love you"s. And then he'd gotten scared after the Debbie Marlin case and recommended Nick for a job he KNEW Sara was more qualified for because, he told himself, he wanted to protect her from turning into him. Sara's DUI was a real wake-up call. Not that he thought she actually had a drinking problem. She'd been out with Nick and Warrick, and had had two beers. If the legal limit hadn't just been dropped, she wouldn't even have been over. But she'd seemed so shattered, and it felt so out of character to him for Sara to give up even a little control. And not that he hadn't wanted to KILL Nick and Warrick for allowing Sara to put herself even at that small amount of risk. But he had to admit, he wouldn't have thought twice if he'd been with them and Sara had had two beers. He would like to believe that if they'd been out together she wouldn't have been behind the wheel afterwards, but he was enough of a realist to recognize that that very well might not have been true. He hadn't earned the right yet to assume he'd be driving her home.

So at that point he started working full time on "Project Sidle". He'd started complimenting her again—it had been so hard to hold his tongue anyway! He started assigning her to work with him more. And he found joy returning to his life. He basked in the exhilaration of processing scenes and evidence side-by-side, of returning to the near-mindmeld he and Sara shared, the silent connection that had so stunned him the first time he'd laid eyes on her.

Sara had come back to him more slowly. Not that he blamed her for not trusting him initially. She'd trusted him before, and he'd hurt her, badly and repeatedly. And it wasn't as if he could or would explain his epiphany to her. Discussing his deepest wants and emotions was hardly Gilbert Grissom's strongest suit. But slowly she began hoping that she could in fact believe in the changes in Grissom and loosened the protective bulwark she'd raised about her heart. His own heart had soared the first time she met his eye with that lopsided smirk, silently sharing a humorous moment with him. It had been so very long… Working the bizarre suburban wife swapping Vanessa Keaton murder case together had been a real pleasure, from walking to the scene side by side, lifting the tape for her to pass under and later processing the Cunningham house together, in synch, without having to say a word (and to be perfectly honest, it's always a bonus when your professional life gives you the opportunity to discuss erotic Pompeii frescos, Prencipe Galeotto and the Kama Sutra with the woman you're pursuing, especially if you can get her smile at you about it) to her implicit agreement at the conclusion of the case that they needed to keep their own budding relationship a secret. "The kids must never know." Before following the body to the morgue, he'd watched and listened from the other side of the crime scene tape as Sara and Greg processed the fountain where the victim had been found. For years, Sara's tolerance of and patience with the young DNA tech-cum-investigator had amazed him, but Greg had grown on him, and he'd come to realize that Sara was a natural teacher. She'd been working with him on his own mentoring skills. In his relationship with Greg, at least, it was paying off. He'd even found himself exchanging a smile of shared humor with the young man as they began processing the Brady house, and again when he discovered a dishwasher full of vibrators, anal plugs and beads.

But most of all he loved talking with Sara, again giving himself permission to bring her coffee, to take thirty seconds to listen to her thoughts. So much of their discussion about life and relationships took place in the context of talking about cases. "Everyone has a jealousy gene," Sara told him. He flashed back to that comment now, wishing not for the first time that he'd kept it in mind three month later when he'd asked Sofia out for a "good bye and thanks for backing me at the expense of your career, are you sure you want to leave?" dinner. Sara, thankfully, had accepted his explanation, but it had been the topic of lab gossip and he'd not missed the hint of betrayal in her gaze. Sofia had been a bit of a mixed blessing from the start. Appearing on his radar screen two weeks after the Vanessa Keaton murder and but a few short months into Project Sidle, her interest and attention did provide a bit of a beard and distracted Catherine in particular, and he'd come to appreciate Sofia's friendship, but he knew Sara didn't feel entirely secure about it. Perhaps he should have been glad that the busybodies were speculating on his relationship with Sofia and not where his heart really lived, but there was a part of him that still wanted to stand on the top of the tallest building at sunrise and proclaim to the world that he loved Sara Sidle. Still, six weeks had passed since that ill-advised dinner, six weeks during which he'd worked almost every case with Sara, and for the last month he'd had breakfast with her after shift or dinner before, and had spent at least one of their two days off each "weekend" with her.

Sitting on a PD hallway bench during the Keaton case, holding steaming paper cups of coffee, Grissom had watched Sara studying the embracing Bradys, a couple who reveled in having sex with other people and yet were free to exhibit the kind of open display of affection that she could—well, Grissom wasn't sure what kind of stressor it would take for Sara to share herself so publicly, but he knew intuitively that he hoped not to find out, as he was convinced some major personal trauma would be involved. Sara was smart, and courageous and loving, but she was also intensely private. Regardless of what happened with their relationship, he was unlikely ever to receive a passionate kiss in public corridor. He'd swept his gaze over her beautiful face, leaned in, and his voice had softened as he stole a moment of intimacy in the busy police station, in the busy day.

"You think it was a crime of passion?" he'd asked.

"Yeah. When you have to go outside marriage for passion, you're in trouble. And you're asking for trouble."

He'd heard the note of wistfulness enter his own voice as he answered her.

"Well, they say that they're happily married."

"Do you think they're happy?"

He glanced away, processing the question then held her gaze—and then Hodges' phone call ended the conversation and pulled him back out into the late afternoon sun.

And that was just the beginning. As the weeks went on, Sara had started laughing again, and smiling, and occasionally singing to herself when working alone. He came to realize that not only was Sara happier, she was, for the first time since he'd met her, actually content. And then Ecklie had split the team, and he and Sara had gone head-to-head, a confrontation which nearly cost her her job, and…

"Gris?" Sara's query pulled him out of his reverie, and he realized they'd made it all the way back to the crime lab. They were sitting, parked in the lot. He flashed her a wry half-smile, apologizing for disappearing into his head for the duration of the drive. She quirked her lip in acknowledgement and acceptance. It had been a long time since she'd had any illusions regarding Grissom's strengths and weaknesses. He'd already made more changes than she'd ever imagined he would—she had no expectations of perfection. Silent drives were par for the course; the loquacious companion who sometimes emerged when they were alone together was always serendipitous. Sara supposed it was the random reinforcement which had kept her so tightly bound to this complicated and difficult man for so long.

Grissom sighed deeply and then spoke.

"Have Greg meet the second vic at Desert Palms. He needs to process her for evidence." Heavily, he climbed out of the car.


	5. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

February 22, 2005 08:45

If there was a silver lining to the depleted night shift, it was that even Supervisor Ecklie recognized that with three investigators, the whole team had to be off together—otherwise six days a week only two criminalists would be available to cover the entire city of Las Vegas. So the day shift, which had absorbed virtually the entire former swing team when Graveyard was divided, covered nights on Tuesday and Wednesday (the quietest nights) which meant that Grissom and Sara had all of their days off together. It took him a couple of months, but he was determined to take advantage of that quirk of fate.

"Hey"

Sara looked up from a microscope to see Grissom standing hesitantly in the doorway of the lab, coffee cup in his hand.

She sat back and gazed evenly at him.

"Hey."

Grissom shifted his weight uncomfortably from foot to foot, glanced back down the hallway in each direction, then took a step forward into the lab.

"You about ready to leave?"

"Just tying up a few loose ends."

"Hungry?"

She frowned, looking at him quizzically.

"Are you—asking me out?"

"To have breakfast."

"With Greg?"

"We can ask him if you want, but I—no. I meant you and me."

"Is this a guilt thing? Because you had dinner with Sofia?"

He shifted again. Somehow, all the times he'd imagined asking Sara out for the first time, it hadn't gone quite like this.

"No. Not guilt. That dinner was less personal than when I went out with Catherine and Jim last week. But while it was a pleasant enough evening, I did spend the whole time wishing I was sitting across the table from you instead, and we have the next two days off, so I thought maybe—"

"Yes."

He looked up at her, confused.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, I'd like to have breakfast with you."

Grissom had spent a lot of time thinking about where to take Sara if he ever had the opportunity. Romantic gestures were hardly his forte, but he also knew he needed to do something more personal than the typical dinner out at a nice (vegetarian) restaurant. It was the kind of thing he'd normally ask Catherine's advice on, but in this case well, it wasn't as if he could approach her to ask, "Hey, Cath, where do you think I should take Sara on a date?" Although despite the women's recent public confrontation, he wasn't entirely sure that she wouldn't approve. (It had been Catherine, after all, who had gotten Grissom to talk Sara out of going when she'd requested a leave of absence three years earlier.) But even if he were SURE she'd be discrete and helpful, it went against every fiber of his being to ask. Instead he'd tried channeling the lover he'd been all those years ago in San Francisco and eavesdropping on members of his team. He'd overheard Nicky and Warrick talk about a date Rick had taken his current squeeze Tina on.

"So, Bro, we got there, I laid out the blanket, broke out the food, the wine and tunes—she was putty in my hands…"

Nick had cuffed Warrick on the shoulder.

"You are SO the man."

Grissom had searched for and found an old-fashioned picnic basket, lined with a plaid cloth with a matching woolen blanket. He'd spent hours planning the menu, going back and forth, finally settling on bread, cheese and fruit. He'd debated champagne versus coffee and decided on both. He wanted to make it clear that he didn't believe Sara had any issues with alcohol—besides, he'd be driving.

Sara headed home to shower and change. Grissom dove under the spray in the locker room and pulled on a pair of jeans and a favorite sweater. He had the picnic basket in his car, bubbly on ice, and apples, grapes, pears, aged white cheddar and manchego in a cooler. He'd swapped Greg the next decomp for a thermosful of his very best coffee and as soon as Sara said "yes", Grissom had hurried back to the break room where only moments before he'd left the young investigator paging through a fashion magazine for full-figured women and pondering sexual proclivities, in order to call in his marker before Greg ducked out the door and into the morning sunlight. One final stop at the bakery and Grissom was headed for Sara's.


	6. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Sara obviously had been watching for him because she emerged from her apartment as soon as he pulled up. Conversation in the car was awkward. She remained quiet, but both her curiosity and anxiety were palpable. Grissom struggled fruitlessly to think of something interesting to say to break the silence.

He reached the Kiwanis Water Conservation Park before he thought of anything. Though the park had been open since 8 am, at 10:00 on a Tuesday morning, they had the place to themselves.

"You know," Sara said as she climbed out of the car, looking around with interest, "I've never been here."

"I hoped you hadn't. Neither have I. I was thinking that maybe this could be a place that could be—special. Ours." Grissom pulled the picnic basket and a backpack from the trunk of the car.

"Come on, Sara. Let's find a place to eat."

He led Sara down a winding path, wandering through the dozen small gardens until they came on a shady bench off to one side. Grissom pulled his blanket from the backpack and laid it over the decomposed granite beside the bench. Taking her hand, he helped her down onto the blanket then began pulling china plates, cloth napkins and champagne flutes from the basket.

"Wow. If I didn't know better, I would think this was an actual date."

Sara watched carefully as Grissom suddenly paused and looked very uncomfortable.

"If it was, would that be okay with you?"

"A date?"

"Yes." He raised his eyes and held her gaze. She studied his anxiety while he watched the range of emotions that flitted across her face—hope, fear--and for the millionth time regretted all the pain he'd caused her over the years. Finally hope won out.

"Yeah, it would be—nice."

"Would you like some champagne?" He held up the bottle.

"Sure. What do we have to eat?"

"Well, to start with, we've got croissants—plain, almond and chocolate."

"After this last case, I wonder about the wisdom of ever eating again, but—almond, please."

He handed over the pastry, then popped the cork, filling both flutes before digging out a cutting board, a knife, the fruit and cheeses.

"Want some coffee? It's Fazenda Santa Ines from Minas Gerais, Brazil."

"Greg?"

"Greg. He says it's the best available that doesn't pass through the digestive tract of a civet."

"Glad you settled for second best. Does he know—?"

"Why I wanted it?"

She nodded slightly, once.

"All he knows is that I promised to take the next decomp myself."

That made her laugh. "I guess you really did want to have breakfast with me."

He looked at her seriously.

"I did. I do." He passed her a slice of pear and eased down to the ground next to her. He then cut a slice of manchego and handed that to her too.

"Gris, don't make me eat by myself." He pulled a chocolate croissant out of the basket and took a bite. Sara watched him.

"You look like you're enjoying that."

"When I was in high school, I spent one summer in a language program in a little town in France. There was a bakery I went to on my way to school every morning. Coffee and a chocolate croissant. Brings back memories."

A wash of pain flashed in Sara's eyes as she thought back to the years she'd spent in foster care.

"I don't have any memories like that from high school."

"I know. I'm sorry." They sat together and ate companionably for several moments. Grissom finally broke the silence.

"How are you, Sara, really?"

She looked at him, searchingly.

"You see me every day."

"I'm trying to see, Sara. Really I am." He met her eyes steadily.

"I know you are, Gris. And it means a lot to me." She relented. "And I'm

fine. Really I am."

"We've had some tough cases recently."

"This last case was just—sad. Really sad. All Brenda Morgan wanted was to be loved, just like anyone else. And she ends up killing someone."

"I talked to the DA's office. They aren't planning on charging her with anything."

"That's something at least, but her life is changed forever. And Maurice Hudson is still dead."

"Greg asked me this morning, he asked me what I like, what gets my juices going."

"Really? And what did you say?"

"I told him that attraction is subjective and can't be analyzed."

"And?"

As he so often did when it came to Sara's insights, he wondered how she knew there was more.

"And that I'm attracted by someone who doesn't judge me."

"Really."

"Yes, really. What was I supposed to tell him? I ruined the best thing that ever happened to me, and I don't know how to fix it?"

"Is that true? Do you really feel that way?"

"Sara, you know I'm no good at this, and I don't know where it's going to go,

but I'm doing my best, and I hope you're still willing to give me a chance. I'm going to try really hard not to hurt you again. I've missed you." He was silent for a moment, and then offered diffidently, "I brought a book to read to you, if you'd like."

She looked at him curiously. "Which book?"

"_The Fox of Peapack_."

The smile that split her face took him back to the Academy conference where they had met. The awkwardness and seriousness of the last few minutes were swept away by her expression of utter child-like delight.

"You remembered."

"Sara, I've had this book on my bedside table for seven years. But yes, I remember. The last time I read it to you, we were sitting on the beach in Carmel."

Softly, Sara recited,

"_The spider, dropping down from twig,_

_Unfolds a plan of her devising,_

_A thin premeditated rig_

_To use in rising._

_And all that journey down through space,_

_In cool descent and loyal hearted,_

_She spins a ladder to the place_

_From where she started._

_Thus I, gone forth as spiders do_

_In spider's web a truth discerning,_

_Attach one silken thread to you_

_For my returning,_"

He looked at her quizzically. "I don't think I know that poem. It's not in this collection. But it is White too, isn't it?"

"Yes. It's called 'Natural History'. It was a poem he wrote to his wife and published anonymously in 1929, before _Peapack_. But I've always liked it. It reminds me of you."

"I did attach a thread to you, you know. It's just taken me a long time to find my way back."

Sara looked away from him. "Gris, I'm afraid to believe in this," she told him softly.

"I know, and I don't expect you to. As long as you're willing to take a chance, though, I'm not going to let you down again. That's all I ask—a chance."

She held his eye for a long time, searching, seeing nothing but sincerity and apology. So much of the time, so much of their communication passed this way, wordlessly, private conversations held silently in public forums. Her hesitance was obvious, but so was her yearning.

"Read 'Apostrophe to a Pram Rider' to me, would you, Gilbert?"

And as she sipped at her champagne, he'd pulled out the book and had begun to read.

That had been the beginning. It had gotten easier from there—a full month of a slow but steady return to the relationship they'd shared seven years ago—thoughts shared, meals together, evening walks holding hands, movies watched with Sara tucked into the crook of Grissom's arm. By the time of the fire, Sara was allowing herself to hope…


	7. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Sara had learned early in her career that sometimes a living victim haunts you more than a dead one. And if she'd forgotten, one of her early cases in Las Vegas, the near-murder of Pamela Adler, had driven that point home. But the Blue Diamond Road wild fire case was Greg Sander's first such experience, and it was a particularly difficult one for him. It had initially perplexed Sara that Grissom had such a hard time mentoring Greg when he had been such a patient and wonderful mentor to her, but she'd come to realize that while she and Grissom were in many ways birds of a feather, Greg was a different species, and all of the instincts which usually told her when to back off and when to push with Grissom, well, Greg completely lacked them. Completely. She didn't think he could punch Grissom's buttons more effectively if he tried. So she'd been working with Grissom, helping him be a little more supportive of Greg. He'd done well, and particularly well in this case. Sara was proud of him, and she'd let him know. But the best support systems in the world couldn't protect the sensitive and caring young criminalist from being effected by what he saw. When she found Grissom printing the victim's amputated fingers himself, she'd gone looking for Greg and found that Sofia Curtis had reached him first. Sara got to the locker room door just in time to hear the detective's words of wisdom on surviving a job that constantly exposes investigators to the very worst that people can do to each other, but hadn't wanted to intrude.

"What's the problem?"

"Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're not."

"Ah, I feel like a wus. Grissom told me I should take a break, and I did."

"Your burn victim."

"How do you get an image like that out of your mind?"

"You go home, you hug your cat, your dog, your pillow, you have a beer, watch a movie and come back tomorrow."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

"Rumor has it you used to be a pretty funny guy. Don't lose that."

"Hey, Greg." The junior investigator had been so deep in thought that he hadn't heard Sara enter the locker room as Sofia left.

"Hey."

"Sofia's advice isn't bad, you know."

"It's not how _**you**_ deal."

She laughed humorlessly.

"Who says I deal at all, G? Believe me, I'm hardly a poster child for effective coping skills. Do not pick me as your role model in this. But you? You're a generally well-balanced emotionally stable guy. I suppose there's something to be said just for recognizing that you were not responsible for the horrible things that happened to these people, but that you are in a fairly unique position to speak for them, to represent them, to maybe make things just a little more understandable, a little easier for the people they left behind. And you do need to keep your sense of humor."

"Really? So what do you hug, Sara?"

"Honestly, G? I'm still trying to work that out…"

"And what do you do when you let Grissom down?"

"You think by that taking a break you've disappointed Grissom?"

"He wouldn't have left. Neither would you."

"Greg, even Grissom needs a break some times. And I do step away. But everyone has different things that get to them. My triggers and Grissom's may not be the same as yours, but they're no easier to deal with. Believe me, he isn't disappointed in you for taking a break. We all know how difficult this case is."

"You think?"

"No, G. I know."

He thought for a long time, finally deciding to believe her. If anyone knew what Grissom was thinking after all, it was Sara.

"Thanks."

\

"Go home, get something to eat, come back and work on something else for awhile."

And then DNA tech Mia Dickerson had linked the arson case to a triple homicide being worked by the swing shift. Grissom and Sara sat down with investigators Catherine Willows and Warrick Brown to compare notes on the two cases, raising more questions than answers.

Sara supposed it was wrong to get such pleasure from investigating the worst day of someone's life, but she loved walking into the Matthew's house with Grissom, searching the house for evidence tying either Neal or Tara to the murders. Their rhythm was practiced and subconscious, long-standing dance partners, and Sara felt the instinctive awareness like a caress as they worked the scene in parallel. When she found a sliver of glass in Neal Matthew's shoe, a frisson of intuition ran through her—he had been there at the time of the murder. All they needed was for Neal to tell them what had happened.

It was later, after breakfast at Photos and Flowers Garden Café, one of Sara's favorite restaurants, sitting at a picnic table overlooking the pond in nearby Lorenzi Park, that emotional exhaustion overtook her.

"It's just all--such a waste. All the Matthews wanted was a baby, and three people end up dead, including little Dani, Tara is unlikely to survive and if she does, is horribly maimed, and Neal will be in prison for the rest of his life."

Grissom reached over and took one of Sara's clenched hands in his own.

"And we still don't know what's going to happen with the baby."

"This case was really tough on Greg, Gris."

"Yeah, I know." He met her eyes. "What can I do for him, Sara?"

"Maybe go a little easy on him the next couple of weeks."

"I was thinking that I might assign him to work with you tomorrow night—do you mind? I know Greg would like that."

"You know it's fine with me. You're my supervisor. I don't expect special treatment because of—this. I'll work with whomever you assign me to."

"Sara, I spend almost two years assigning you to work with other people because I was avoiding you. If I do it now, I want you to understand why."

"I don't expect to work with you every day."

He scanned her face, enjoying the April morning sun playing off of her hair, casting a golden light on her skin.

"And yet, that's the central joy in my life." But as always, emotional honesty made him uncomfortable and Sara watched the retreat in his eyes. She smiled at him a little sadly.

"I need to get some sleep, Gris. You ready to get going?"

He stood, grateful for the out, and then felt guilty for his cowardice.

"How do you feel about Chinese tonight? I can bring takeout over before shift."

Sara's smile increased in wattage.

"As long as you bring garlic eggplant and veggie dumplings, you're on."


	8. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Grissom was glad he'd made the effort that night—they were called in early, and it was so busy that he barely caught a glimpse of Sara passing in the hall, and then only because her voice caught his ear as she and Greg rounded a corner nearby. The thought of Greg sharing a decontamination shower with Sara, of Greg catching a glimpse even of the flower tattoo he loved tracing on her left ankle raised Grissom's hackles. Privately he chastised himself for his jealousy as he hungrily watched them walk away from him. He might sometimes lack the courage Sara deserved, but he never doubted her fidelity, even if their relationship was still in the friendship stage. And the night wasn't all bad. Assigning Greg to work with Sara meant he'd had to answer a call from Brass on a hit and run by himself, but the case turned out to be interesting, even amusing, and he found himself enjoying working with his old friend. Besides, he loved dumb criminals. The paperwork took longer than solving the case. As a bonus, he caught Hodges mispronouncing the word "ELISA". Not a pleasure he felt very often. And Sara had the opportunity to rip up an apartment with a Sawzall, something which always put her in a good mood.

In the month which had passed since that first "real date", and without any conscious thought to it, they'd fallen into an easy rhythm. Some mornings Grissom's little team would go out for breakfast, other mornings he'd follow after Sara, bringing breakfast to her apartment. The first morning they met at her place, he wandered around while she set her little table.

"Take the self-guided tour," she'd offered, and he'd come back from her bedroom carrying a framed photo he'd found by her bed.

"I never got a copy of this," he told her, sitting down and studying it.

"Do you remember that day?"

"It was the day you took drove me by the house where you grew up. We stopped here, at the Marshall Store on Tomales Bay and had barbequed oysters sitting on the pier before we drove back to the city."

"A tourist offered to take that picture of us."

"That was a difficult day for you, going back to your old haunts, but you look happy in this picture Sara."

"We both do. We both were, I think. We might have been revisiting my past, but you were my present and, I thought, my future."

"You took my breath away. So all this time, you've held onto this photo?"

"All this time it's been by my bed."

"What did Hank think about that?"

"Hank was never in my bedroom. He was only in the apartment a few times. We went to his place, or more often someplace neutral like a B&B. We really weren't together very much, you know."

"Why not here?"

"I don't know. It felt too personal, I suppose. I never wanted to be somewhere I couldn't leave."

"Would you rather we do breakfasts at my place?"

"I like having you here. I think we should alternate, like we talked about."

"Good. Because I like being here, but I also want you in my house. Before—we were always in your space. You never came here to Vegas. This time I don't want to compartmentalize us. Just keeping it separate from work is going to be tough enough."

The next morning, Sara went home to shower after work, and then drove over to Grissom's. And the day after that. Then back to Sara's. And then it was Tuesday, and Sara did her laundry at his place, while they watched _Bringing Up Baby _on tv and together made pasta for dinner. Wednesday they ran errands in the morning, then Sara begged off for some time on her own, afraid that too much togetherness was going to suffocate Grissom. And then spent the next thirty-six hours knocking around her apartment, willing the time until she was due back at work to fly. Grissom called in the morning, as he was getting ready for bed.

"It was quiet here without you. I kept thinking of things I wanted to tell you, but,,,"

"I missed you too."

"I'll see you tonight. Sleep well, Sara."

But Wednesdays apart did give them time to regroup, and became their routine. Most other days they spent at least some part together, at one end or the other, dinner or breakfast, afternoons spent reading together, going for walks, evenings watching old movies. And Sara began believing that maybe this time Grissom really was in for the long haul.

On Thursday, April 28th, Greg was waiting in the break room when

Grissom strode in with assignments and glanced around the room.

"Greg, where's Sara?"

"Haven't seen her. I'm sure she'll be here in a minute."

Grissom put down his paperwork and reached for his cell phone.

"Gris, shift doesn't even start for another five minutes," Greg protested, but Grissom appeared not even to hear him and hit speed dial.

"Hey, yeah, it's me. Where are you?"

Sara came through the door behind him, phone to her ear.

"Right here. And I'm early. What's the rush?"

They put down their phones in synchronicity.

"There's been a murder at Desert State Mental Hospital. In the locked ward. Brass is waiting for us. Greg, Doc Robbins is writing a paper on the death of Paul Charles and was looking for your report. Get him what he needs, then call me, would you? We're going to need you."

"Great," Sara grimaced. "Just what I've been hoping for—a night spent surrounded by the criminally insane." She followed Grissom from the room, and side-by-side they headed for the car, ready for another night in the life of the Las Vegas Crime Lab.


End file.
